


What Happens at the Hanged Man...

by Eadgyth



Series: Of Wardens, Champions, and Inquisitors [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, Drug Use, F/M, It takes time to dismantle societal prejudices, Mages and Templars, Modern Thedas, Modern Thedas is no picnic, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, drug references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-05-28 18:13:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6340021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eadgyth/pseuds/Eadgyth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ages have passed, but some things never change. Kirkwall still the worst piece of shit city in all of Thedas, but hey, it's home. And what is Kirkwall without it's Champion?</p><p>Warning: This will be looking at the way the prejudices against mages might be institutionalized in a modern Thedas setting. It will also look at mental health and trauma treatments and thus may trigger some readers. Most of the familiar characters in the first two games are likely to show up in some shape or form and my own cannon from my other DA works will be incorporated along with details from my canon playthroughs of all three games. As such there will some name changes or variations of cannon names to reflect that this is not a retelling per se, but a continuation of the world established in the DA games, books, and comics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Club

The club was a cheap dive but it was miles away from Uni, which meant Marie was less likely to run into her fellow graduate students. She preferred it that way, honestly. It meant she could walk the streets of Kirkwall without being instantly identified a both a student and a mage.

Still, she never left her small apartment without letting her brother know she was going out and roughly when to expect her back. One could never be too careful. This was still Kirkwall after all.  
Marie tugged on the hood of her jacket. It was raining, giving the already gray city a mirror like sheen.

She wanted to get out her cramped apartment, have a few drinks, maybe entertain the idea that she might pick up someone out on the dance floor, and then go home and pass out on her daybed. She didn’t want to be harassed by any Templars looking for undocumented mages or anti-mage nutters going on about the evils of magic, or mage rights activists looking for a fight. So she left her few Uni friends in the dark about what she did on her weekends. It was better this way, easier to pretend she was normal, easier to let go of the giant target on her back.

Because Marie couldn’t be just any mage. Nope, the Maker had a damn fine sense of twisted humor and decided that Marie had the dubious honor of being a Hawke. Oh, and the kicker was that the family could trace their lineage back to the bloody Champion of Kirkwall. She even got saddled with the woman’s name, which was just rubbing salt into the wound as far as Marie was concerned.

Gwyndolyn Marie Hawke. Now didn’t that roll off the tongue like a load of nug shit. Once she realized who she was related to, Marie flat out refused to answer to her first name. Her great-great-many times great and long dead grandmother was a notorious figure in Thedas’ history and one Marie did not want to be associated with in any capacity.

Admittedly, things were a lot better for mages than they had been back in Great-Grandma Hawke’s day, but they were far from perfect. Universities had long replaced Circle Towers, but old prejudices died hard. Every mage-born child’s lineage was tracked and tagged. Every mage had to register with the Templars and leave a vial of their blood on file when they came into their power. There were separate primary and secondary schools for mage-talent families, separate neighborhoods. Void take it all there was just about separate everything for mages and their families.

And she didn’t even want to think about her career options. Still she had another year of Uni before she had to make that delightful choice.  
Marie crossed the street and looked up at the name of the club. _The Hanged Man? Really? If there’s a dwarf behind the bar, I’m going home and punching Carver._

After making her way through an impressive crowd of bodies for such a seedy location, she saw that there was indeed a dwarf behind the bar.

Rolling her eyes, she found an empty stool. The music was beginning to be the only redeeming thing about the place.

“You want a drink?” The dwarven bartender had popped up next to her, the rolled sleeves of his burgundy dress shirt showing off his well-defined biceps and forearms. He rounded out the outfit with a low cut tuxedo vest in a warm brown and showed off his chest hair instead of a beard. This dwarf was definitely a surfacer.

Her black-tipped nails tapped along with the beat of the music. She needed a drink, then she needed to dance, she could ignore the Maker’s sense of irony for now, “Martini, stirred, extra dirty.”

The dwarf gave her a wide grin, “Coming right up, Legs.”

Carver had warned her about the bartender who tended to give his customers odd nicknames, though he left out the whole dwarf thing, along with the name of the place. Still, it didn’t stop her from looking down at her outfit and wondering where he’d gotten the idea to call her “Legs” from. She wasn’t that tall, barely over a meter, and she wasn’t even in her “fuck me” boots that gave her legs an extra edge, opting instead for a pair of comfortable flats she knew she could dance in. Maybe it was her pants? She’d worn the leather ones, after all, the ones Carver thought were indecent. And her long waifish torso was outlined by a fairly shapeless and sequenced top. So, it wasn’t like she’d played up her better features tonight. Honestly, she didn’t know what the dwarf was thinking.

“And here we are, one Martini, stirred, extra dirty,” the dwarf set down her drink. “That will be 5 pounds.”

Marie took a quick sip, enjoying the burn of the gin and tang of the olive brine as she fished her money out of her belt wallet. Whatever else the dwarf might be, he made a damn fine martini. It almost made up for the club’s name. Holding the bills between her fingers, she flicked them out towards the dwarf, and then back, “Why Legs?”

The dwarf shrugged, “Don’t know, just fits.”

She sighed, knowing she was going to regret asking, “Please tell me you're not a Tethras?”

“Well,” he snatched the folded bills deftly from between her fingers, “guess I’m not telling you, Legs. Enjoy your drink.”

Marie snorted, picking out the olive spear out of her drink. _Great, nothing like a dwarf with a sense of humor._ She pulled an olive off with her tongue as she mused. She had her drink, the music was just the right shade of danceable, and the crowd was large enough for anonymity. It was too late to backtrack. She was committed.

“I’d watch it if I was you, sweet thing, keep eating your olives like that and you’re going to cause a stir. You’re already just titts and ass in this place as it is.”

“Hmm,” she looked over at the woman who had nudged her way up to the bar.  A warm sepia-hued complexion, bright hazel eyes, dark mahogany waves, and curves Marie would have killed someone for all poured into a tight white dress that just barely covered the woman’s assets. Marie picked up her olives again, watching the woman’s breath catch ever so slightly as Marie tugged another olive into her mouth, “Maybe that’s the idea.”

The woman’s eyes dilated just a hair as she gave Marie a wide grin, “Oh, I like you.”

“Hey, Rivaini,” the dwarf barked at them from down the bar. “you drinking your usual?”

Marie watched the woman roll her eyes, lean over the bar, grab a glass, and pull a pint, “Yeah, Varick, now go bother someone else.”

“I’ll put it on your tab then,” the dwarf gave them a wide grin and then looked at Marie. “Watch out for that one, Legs.”

It was apparently Marie’s turn to roll her eyes. She picked up the remains of her drink, slipped off her stool, and offered her free arm to the woman, “Shall we?”

“Definitely,” the woman linked her arm with Marie and licked the foam from her lips, “Name’s Izzy.”

“Marie.”

As they walked deeper into the club, Marie let the music in, letting it and the alcohol make her movements fluid. Next to casting, dancing was the only other outlet Marie had found for her own set of demons. That she was dancing without being scantily clad and having a bunch of people ogle her was even better. She could lose herself in the music and let it carry her away. The drinks eventually ended up empty on some table. Then it was just the music. Having Izzy on the floor with her was a nice change. Usually, she found a club, had her drink, danced a bit until some asshat tried something, and then she had to find a new club next week. Izzy seemed to have a reputation at The Hanged Man that had them dancing in a small clearing with nary an asshat in sight. The club was definitely starting to grow on her now.

Three martinis and hours later she found herself lounging in the embrace of a comfy banquette at the back of the club. Apparently, Izzy had privileges.

“So, sweet thing,” Izzy purred in Marie’s ear, her hand sliding along Marie’s thigh, “any ideas on how you’d like to spend the rest of the night?”

This was the part of the evening that Marie always hated. It wasn’t that she didn’t find Izzy attractive. Sweet Maker, the woman had Marie more than wound up by now. It was just that she hated having to set rules. Dancing was the closest she got to sex with someone who wasn’t mage. It was just easier that way. Saved her from becoming a walking disaster after that first time, and helped her stay clear of the mage fetishist. She let her hand trail along Izzy's cheek and then out along her jaw, “Not going to happen.”

“Really,” Izzy pouted, full lips wet and shining in the dim light. She leaned forward, ghosting those lips over Marie’s ear, “‘cause it looks like we’re already well on our way, kitten.”

“I…” Marie turned her head, opening her mouth to speak, and found her protests swallowed by Izzy.

The kiss was bruising, and Marie found herself wanting to let go. Let out all the lust and tension that had built up inside her over the course of the night. But she knew the consequences and she was really starting to like this hole-in-the-wall club. So, she let Izzy have her kiss, but did not return it.

“Bollux,” Izzy sat back against the cushions of the banquette, “You’re serious aren’t you?”

“I am,” Marie slipped her lips into a thin wan line. “I’m sorry, I come for drinks, music, dancing. Nothing else.”

“So,” Izzy picked up her neglected pint, “is this some kind of code you live by.”

“It is,” Marie stirred her empty olive spear around the dredges of her fourth and final drink.

Izzy rolled her eyes, “Bloody boring if you ask me.”

“Ha,” Marie gave a short strained laugh and drained the last of her drink. “It can be.”

“You know,” Izzy eyed her again as she sensed Marie’s weakness, “rules are made to be broken.”

Marie shook her head, chasing looks of horror and revulsion along with those of twisted delight from her head, “Not these ones, I’m afraid.”

“Bah!” Izzy slammed her empty pint glass down on the low table in front of them. “You sound like, Anders. You aren’t a mage, are you?”

The Maker did indeed have a cruel sense of humor. Marie placed her empty glass next to Izzy’s as she scooted forward, “Thanks for the drinks and the dancing.”

“Hey, sweet thing,” Izzy grabbed her arm, pulling against Marie’s forward momentum, “no need to be like that. Come on, there’s still, at least, another hour till last call."

“Izzy,” Marie looked back at the woman she’d spent the night dancing with, hoping her terror didn’t show, “you’re sweet and sexy, but I really do need to go.”

“Alright,” Izzy settled back against the cushions of her seat once more. “See you around, kitten.”

Marie gave Izzy a curt nod, “Yeah, see you.”

Her feet couldn’t take her out of the club fast enough. Even though she manage not to push frantically through the crowd after leaving Izzy, she did forget her coat. But her heart was hammering in her chest and suddenly everything in the club was too bright, too loud, and too crowded. She could feel memories she wished she could forget crawling around her head, flashing in front of her eyes, making her cringe and scuttle at the slightest imagined touch, the loudest pop of sound. Marie tried to remember to breathe, tried to remember not to run, tried to remember not to bring attention to herself.

She took a deep breath once she was well outside the club and found she had a bit of luck working in her favor. It wasn’t raining. The streets were still slick and shining in the hazy moonlight, but at least, she didn't have to worry about showing up on her doorstep looking like a drowned rat. Carver would just love that. She forced her pace to slow, tried to put a ramrod straight confidence into her stride, and a “don’t fuck with me” glint into her eyes.

This was Kirkwall after all.


	2. Templar After Hours

Izzy sat in her private booth after Marie left, watching the flow of the crowds through the club until the bell for last call was rung.

The Hanged Man was unassuming as far as the Kirkwall club scene went. Of course, she and Varrik had built it that way, purchasing a run-down warehouse in the old Factory district of Lowtown well before it became the arts district it was today. THM, as some liked to refer to the place, wasn’t the frilly Orlesian mess like Breathe over in Hightown with it’s overblown and gilded decor, tiny dance floor, and enforced dress code. And it certainly wasn’t the erotic perfumed grotesquery that The Rose and Feather was with it’s caged and suspended dancers, heavy velvet curtains, and moody lighting. Instead, THM was an industrial mess of bare stone, polished reclaimed wood, and steel. The only thing Izzy and Varrik hadn’t compromised on was the booze and the sound. You wanted the best craft alcohol and beer in the city served by knowledgeable and charming bartenders, you came to The Hanged Man. You wanted the best soundscape with the hottest artists both upcoming and established, you came to The Hanged Man, anything else was a two-bit tart in fancy window dressing as far as Izzy was concerned.

She sighed as the staff began picking up the detritus of another night of dancing and debauchery. Marie had been a nice change from the regulars at the club, and she certainly knew how to dance. The girl had pushed all of the right buttons, and yet had walked away looking slightly terrified. Izzy wondered if she was losing her touch. Shaking her head and moving back toward the front of the house, she snatched up her pint glass. She didn’t know why she was giving the girl a second thought, but there’d been something about Marie that had tugged Izzy like a bad itch.

Varrik looked up from the glass he was polishing dry as Izzy slipped behind the bar and pulled another pint of amber ale, “So, how’d it go with Legs, Rivaini?”

“Is she standing here, Varrik,” Izzy crossed her arms over chest, trying not to slosh her drink as she did or dump it on the dwarf. “That should be your first clue as to how things went.”

“Hmm,” Varrik held up the glass he’d been drying to the light and then tucked it back under the bar before grabbing another glass from the green dishwasher tray in front of him, “someone’s in a snit.”

Izzy pressed her lips together and counted to ten, then counted to twenty before she decided not to throw her drink at Varrik. The dwarf could be insufferable sometimes, but he was still her business partner. She rolled the edge of her glass along her lips, studying the well-connected dwarf for a moment.

“You’re staring again, Rivaini,” Varrik barely fluttered his warm hazel eyes up at her, “it’s making that special spot between my shoulder blades itch.”

“Tell me, Varrik,” Izzy set her half empty glass down on the bar, “did she look familiar to you?”

"Who, Legs?" Varrik's face screwed up into a question mark punctuated with a bit of surprise, then he shrugged, “Seen one human, you’ve seen ‘em all.”

“Bullshit Varrick.”

“Well,” the dwarf paused, setting the glass he’d been working on down on the bar, “I do remember a piece from Athenril’s who had legs like that. I think she even had a burly brother who bounced at the door with a scowl a mile long. But like I said, you all look the same to me.”

“Maker’s ruddy flaming balls,” Izzy rolled her head, resisting the strong urge to spit with disgust at the mention of Athenril, “no wonder she jumped out of her skin when I asked her about being a mage.”

“You know, Rivaini,” Varrick picked up his discarded glass and began polishing it again, a wide smirk splitting his face, “For someone who’s as fast and precise with her knives as she is with her business deals, you can be pretty dense sometimes.”

“Shove it, dwarf.”

Varrik chuckled, warm, smooth, and neat, like the Starkhaven whiskey he drank.

The door at the back of the club opened. Izzy looked at Varrik and rolled her eyes. This was not the way she wanted to top off her night.

Two men walked into the club. Both were tall, strapping, and degrees of blond. The blondest of the pair was dressed in a well-tailored gray three-piece suit and sporting a scruffy attempt at a full beard that came off as more unshaved stubble than anything else. The ruddy blonde was sporting an open dark tan blazer over a crisp white tee-shirt, a pair of dark jeans, and a stylishly trimmed goatee. They could have been brothers, though Izzy knew for a fact that they weren’t. Besides, the man in the suit had skin that glared in the midday sun and was just as apt to burn to a crisp in it. The jacket, on the other hand, would likely have had a hard time getting people to believe he could actually burn in the sun, since it already seemed so well loved by it. 

Both men walked with an air of privilege that made Izzy’s teeth hurt and fingers itch. 

“But you must see that the current system is simply not working,” the slightly taller, broader chested, and well dressed of the pair walked with clipped stride towards the bar.

“Sooo, what then?” the slighter man drawled, his stride looser than his companions, “It’s time to round them all up again and shove them all back in Towers and Circles? You do realize that your sister is mage right and my lovely excuse for a mother? How well do you think that’s going to go?”

“I’m just saying that Circles used to protect mages,” the suit shook his head. “The Veil’s only getting thinner. Look at what happened in Tevinter only last week.”

“Don’t remind me,” the jacket shuddered and then grinned, “but then Tevinter has been its own special brand of crazy when it comes to magic.”

The suit rolled his eyes, “Oh, it’s impossible to talk to you when you’re like this.”

“Like what?” The jacket rested his arm on the bar and winked at Izzy. She scowled at him, which only got her a chuckle and a grin from the jacket.

“Defensive,” the suit settled opposite of the jacket and gave a dismissive flick of his arm, “deflecting everything with humor, barely rubbing your more than adequate brain cells together.”

“Meee!!! Thinking,” the jacket scooped his voice in a way that made Izzy’s ears ache, “that would be too much like me leading and we all know what happens when I do that! Valuable cheeses are lost and then we end up lost in the woods with no pants!”

“You’re impossible,” the suit groaned, rubbing his hand over his brow.

“Yes, well, I’m still your best friend,” the jacket pointed at the suit and then shrugged. “Who else could you have dragged out at this hour, eh?”

“Please.”

“You boys here for anything in particular,” Varrik ran his thick fingers down on the polished oak of the bar, “or are you just going to stand there and banter at each other?

“He’s here to see Izzy,” the suit thumbed at the jacket before folding both his arms on the bar in front of Varrik and pointing at his own double-breasted chest, “I’m here to check your permits.”

“At this time in the morning, Curly?” Varrik raised a brow as he picked up another glass. “You sure that’s all you’re here for?”

“Well,” the jacket piped, “he did have us standing out in the blighted drizzle for almost an hour and a half while this place emptied out.”

“Alistair…” The suit audibly ground his teeth.

The jacket shrugged, “What? It’s not anyone here is in the dark about your day job Culls.”

“Bloody Templars,” Varrik grumbled then pointed at the suit. “You better not be planning another raid, Curly, or you’ll find a less than cordial response then next time you decide to drop by.”

“Just doing my job, Varrick.”

Varrik snorted, “And is harassing legitimate business owners now under the purview of the Templars then? I thought you only harried the poor, destitute, and mage-blooded. Oh wait, I forgot you were mage-blooded. So is this some kind of metaphorical self-flagellation for you then?”

“Ouch,” the jacket clicked his tongue, “you know he really doesn’t like to be reminded of that Varrik.”

“Piss off, Snowflake,” Varrik threw a glare at the jacket. “I’m having an argument with Curly here.”

Izzy had mostly leaned against the backside of the bar, watching the display unfold before her and trading increasingly salacious looks with Alistair. But she was board now and had a gig to arrange and a deal to close. She slipped around the bar and pulled Alistair upright, “Well, I can see this is going to be a lovely chat. Have fun with Varrik, Commander, I’m taking Ali back to the office now.”

“Just please don’t muss the carpet again,” Varrik called as she and Alistair sauntered towards the back office.

Izzy didn’t even look behind her as she flipped Varrik off and kept walking.

“He knows that we’re not, I mean that this isn’t,” Alistair fumbled with his words as Izzy opened the door to the office.

“Relax, Ali,” Izzy strode over to her desk and sat behind it, “Varrik knows I’m not your type. He just likes making Cullen uncomfortable. So what can I do for you?”

“I just want to make sure everything is set for tomorrow night,” Alistair ran his hand threw his close-cropped hair as Izzy tracked his pacing.

“Alistair, relax,” Izzy swiveled in her chair and pulled out a bottle of homebrew from the fridge behind her. She levered off the cap and passed it to Alistair.

“Thanks.” The pacing slowed as Alistair grabbed the bottle, he took a long swig, “It’s just if my parents get wind of this, I’ll be whisked back to Denerim faster than you can say Andraste’s bitter knickers.”

Izzy snorted, her eyes wandering to the stack of papers that had the young man’s face plastered all over them, “I’m frankly surprised they haven’t pulled you back yet with the way you been showing up in the rags here.”

“Yes, well. They tolerate that. Nothing else for me to do or to do with me. Maric’s the heir, Fergus is the spare, and I’m just the leftover prince with the incredibly pompous name,” Alistair finally wandered over to the black leather lounge and collapsed on it. “My slumming through Kirkwall’s club scene is just an expected rebellious box they get to tick before they marry me off to some Orlesian or Antivan third cousin, twice removed.”

Izzy folded her hands in her lap, waiting as Alistair took another drink.

“But this,” Alistair pointed with the neck of his bottle at the turn-table that sat on the corner of Varriks desk waiting for the dwarf to send it out for repairs, “This is taking my life into my own hands. Drawing the battle lines, fighting for want I want.”

“Scared?” Izzy arched a brow.

“Shitless.”

“Look, Ali,” she leaned forward on her desk, “we’ve got this okay? Security details, guest list, it’s all planned down to the last detail, remember?”

“Right, okay,” Alistair gulped down the last of his drink, sat forward and rolled the empty bottle between his palms, “you’ve got this, no need to be worried. At all.”

Izzy sighed and went to sit by Alistair. She rubbed a hand down his back, “Do you want to crash here? Just to be on the safe-side. Varrik and I have a flat on the third floor.”

“Could I?” He looked up at her, the gold flecks in his dark amber eyes glinting in the dim light of the office.

“Sure Alistair,” she said gently, before giving him a wicked grin. “Now should we recuse Cullen form Varrik?”

“Hah,” Alistair’s laugh barked out clear and crisp. “Let him stew a bit longer, the bastard stopped me seeing if a young lady we saw walking off without a coat was alright.”

“Oh, Ali,” Izzy tweaked Alistair’s dimpled cheek, “your precious, you know that right?”

He flashed her a wide slanted grin, “Well, I am a prince.”


	3. Discretion is the Better Part of Valor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was giving me a headache, lots of dialogue and Cullen flat-out refused to cooperate. Trigger warning for subtle drug references.

Kirkwall was always quieter after a storm. Something about the rains seemed to wash the rat-tangled streets clean of both people and refuse. Cullen appreciated both the quiet of the late hour and the storm cleared streets.

Dealing with dwarves was never easy, especially when the dwarf in question was a Tethras. Not that Varrik had been anything but his usual mix of charm, brusque humor, and well-aimed sarcasm. Not that Cullen begrudged the dwarf, either, no one relished a visit from the Templars. It just made his job that much harder. He almost wished he’d been born in his namesakes day, or before, back when the order was strong and respected across Thedas. These days, it was a gutted arm of the Seekers, subjected to almost as much regulation and oversight as the mages themselves.

His phone rang as he crossed the street. If Cullen was lucky, it would Alistair calling to say that he’d reconsidered his ill-conceived notion of going into business with Izzy Sobol. The woman had a less than respectable reputation.

“Cullen here.”

“And?” The voice at the other end of the line was clipped and prim, each word a sour note in Cullen’s ear.

“All the clubs have their paperwork in order.” Cullen slowed, hooking his head around his shoulder and looking down the street behind him.

“Irregularities?”

“None,” he shook his head and looked back down the street in the other direction, “not even at Athenril’s.”

There was a hissed sigh, and then the voice leveled sternly,“These rumours do not stem from thin air, Captain.”

“I realize that, mum,” Cullen couldn’t help the sharp nod he gave, as if he was a green beat officer. Old habits were hard to break after all. “But there’s no evidence. The most interesting thing was seeing one of the Hawke’s walking out of the Tethras establishment.”

There was a pause, long and limitless in its consideration. Cullen strained under the weight of the silence, palms sweating and collar beginning to feel much too tight. And then it broke, “Are you still stationed at the college?”

“Yes, mum,” he scratched the back of his neck, tugging on the collar of his shirt and loosening his tie a bit. “Though the Headmaster is beginning to poke around my office.”

Another silence met his ears, he could barely make out the fall of breaths on the other end of the line, but he could picture with crystal clarity the drawn narrow line of his commanding officer's lips. Her silences were never without them, “File your report, Captain, then pass the information on to Alrik”

“Of course, mum,” Cullen hoped his words didn’t should too clipped, Alrik was the last person he’d want heading this kind of investigation. “Anything else, mum?”

The voice on the other end of the line became sibilant silk, “I may have something...sensitive, for you to handle Captain, but that brief can wait till morning. Goodnight Captain.”

Cullen repressed a shiver, “Yes, mum. Goodnight, mum.”

He only pocketed his phone after he was sure the line had disconnected.

For a while, he simply wandered in the vaguest direction towards his apartment on the upper east side of the Heights District. As the buildings became worn, graffitied shells, with blown out and boarded up windows, Cullen paused long enough to pull out his half-finished pack of cigarettes.

His hands trembled as he shook out and lit the slim roll of South Reach pipeweed that was blended with elfroot and clove. He let the smoke fill his lungs as he waited for his hands to stop shaking.

The buzz of his phone seemed to rattle in time with the vibration of his skin.

“Cullen, here,” he took another long drag off his cigarette. At this rate, he’d be lucky if what was left of the pack lasted till morning.

“Where are you?” Alistair’s voice badgered him from the other side of the line.

“Home,” he said the word succinctly as possible, hoping it would pass muster.

It apparently did not.

“ _Culls_ , don’t make me come find you,” the edge in Alistair’s voice told Cullen that if he didn’t find a way to placate him, then the younger princeling would indeed come looking for him. Half the rumours floating around about the Ferelden prince were mostly due to Alistair feeling the need to go out looking for Cullen at some uncouth hour.

“Look, Al,” Cullen sighed hoping that the roughness his cigarettes gave his voice helped convey the idea that he was really rather tired. “I got hung up by Meredith not wanting to wait till I got to the office to hear my report. I’m sorry I wasn’t home, but I’m almost there.”

The silence that hung on the other end of the line seemed considering to Cullen. At least, he hoped it was.

“How far away are you?”

Cullen praised the Maker that the streets were quiet for a change, it made his next lie that much more believable, “A block, maybe two.”

“Hmm…”

“Alistair,” Cullen heaved his friend's name like it was a lead weight, “it’s late. I’m exhausted and Meredith wants me in early to file my reports, can we save the interrogation for now?”

“You’re really only a block or two away?”

He flicked his spent cigarette to the ground and watched it hiss against the rain-slicked cobblestones. “I’d be there sooner if I hadn’t stopped to talk to you.”

“Right, point taken. Well, goodnight then Culls,” Alistair paused, “Still on for lunch tomorrow?”

“Of course, Al,” Cullen chuffed into his grin. “See you tomorrow.”

The line went silent for a moment while Cullen waited, then Alistair’s voice popped back in, “Hey, try to get some actual sleep tonight? Just because your harridan of a boss wants those papers by morning doesn’t mean you need to spend the wee hours of the morning writing them, okay?”

Cullen chuckled, “Okay, Al, I’ll try.”

“Right, well, ‘night then,” and finally the line went well and truly dead on the other end.

Pulling out another cigarette, Cullen flipped through the contacts on his phone. He pressed the leering icon after he’d lit up once more.

“What?” the voice that picked up was rough, gravelly, and laced with a Marcher’s burr.

“Is there a game on?” he took an another long drag, he was going to have to stop at the smoke shop on First Street on his way to the office tomorrow.

“Bah!" the voice on the other end of the line spat, "I knew you wouldn’t make it. You’ve been off since that bastard cousin of yours came and tied you to his purse strings.”

Cullen’s shuffled his feet against the uneven surface of the street and turned back in the direction of his apartment, “Never you mind, just tell me if there’s a game on, Sam.”

“Oh, there’s a _game_ alright,” Sam voice, like his icon in Cullen’s phone, leered. “In fact, I figured that you wouldn’t make it out tonight, so I left you a piece back at your place.”

He choked on the smoke, sputtering against Sam’s dark chuckle on the other end of the line. Cullen’s eyes burned as he gasped, “You didn’t.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Rutherford, I was discreet,” Sam’s voice practically dripped with a sneer.

“Dare I asked where you left it?” Cullen swallowed the lump that had collected in his throat as his palms began to sweat.

“Why, in the middle of your bed of course, along with all your other tools,” Sam’s voice was smooth with amusement.

Cullen groaned. He really was not in the mood for Sam’s sarcasm, wrung out as he was from Meredith's wild goose chase and Alistair’s well-intentioned coddling. “Please tell me you didn’t break into my apartment just to mess with me, Sam.”

“Not this time,” Cullen bit back a curse at the vague promise he heard in Sam’s voice.

 _Wonderful_ , he thought as he finished his second smoke and fingered a third, _now I’ve given him an idea_.

“And?” He hoped his voice held enough steel to convince Sam to stop yanking him around.

“Hehe,” Sam laughed, a cold hollow clang in Cullen’s ear, “you’re really hard up, aren’t you Captain?”

“ _Lieutenant_ ,” he snapped the word against his teeth, hoping that Sam wouldn’t press him further. It would be a long day in the office for both of them if he did.

Thankfully, pulling rank seemed to sober the man some, “It’s in a direct mail envelope, all legafied and stamped, mind you don’t step on it. You’re lucky you have a mail slot, Captain.”

“I’ll remember that the next time I talk to my landlord,” Cullen rolled his eyes as he clicked the line off, not wanting to hear Sam’s voice grate any longer against his ears.

His pace became a clipped march as he shoved his phone back down into his suit pocket. It would be another half-hour before he caught the right trams, but at least he’d have less to conceal later that afternoon.


End file.
